Messages - Received
by V. Thomas
Summary: It's been three years since Sherlock's suicide. John's in shambles. He's resorted to his trusty cane once again and sometimes can't be coaxed to leave 221B even though it's so empty. He's in for quite the surprise, though, when his phone goes off and he receives a message he never imagined would come.


**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock.**

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Three years of being alone again. Three long years without the violin. Three long years without thumbs in the fridge. Three long years without a case, without chaos, without a running blog.

Three long years without Sherlock.

John couldn't bring himself to leave 221B very often. It was a hassle, clomping down the stairs with a cane. Obnoxious and tedious, it was, neither of which he had the energy for most days. Instead, he spent his time in the chair so familiar to him, staring at the seat opposite sometimes for long minutes that very nearly turned into hours. He often reflected on how that seat should be filled and how violin music should be floating from its occupant. But the violin sat in the corner, gathering dust until Mrs. Hudson came by for another round of cleaning. Unable to bear the emptiness, John sometimes moved the worn-down skull from the mantle into the chair. It was better to talk to something instead of nothing, but Mrs. Hudson always sent it back to its perch above the fireplace when he wasn't around.

There were times when the landlady would shoo Watson out, too, gently prodding him through the door. "Go see Molly, go see Lestrade!" she'd prompt him. Anyone observing these exchanges would understand that all the frail woman wanted was for the retired soldier to have something to look forward to, but John didn't always feel that way. Some days, he resented being ushered out of the flat. Other days, it just didn't matter. It had happened and he could do nothing about it, so he shambled through London with his sturdy old cane.

One particular morning, having decided he had enough ambition to look through some of the cases he'd once shared with the brilliant consulting detective, he placed himself in his chair. His cane leaned against the armrest, ever present, and John pulled his laptop into his lap. Opening it, he patiently waited for it to resume operation before pulling up the blog he'd once been so devoted to. The counter was still stuck at 1895, he noticed with a pang of sorrow. Not once had it changed since the peculiar adventure with Irene Adler.

Irene now on his mind, John clicked the link to her case and slowly began to read it. A keen wave of longing washed over him as he plowed farther and farther through the words he'd penned so long ago. Had he really written so much about Sherlock, been so quick to praise him at every turn? Newspaper headlines danced at the back of his mind, jeering at him that his best friend in the world was a fraud, a fake, a fool. He shook his head and shut the laptop, refusing to accept that. No one could be so clever and suddenly slip up while dealing with an actor. No one. Moriarty was very, very real, and John continued to believe in Sherlock Holmes.

Putting the laptop aside, he saw that the skull was on the mantle once again. Mrs. Hudson must have cleaned the flat while he was out the day before and moved it again. Grimacing, John rose to his feet and shuffled over to lift the skull from the mantle and put it where it belonged, on the cushion of Sherlock's chair. As he went, he noted the lack of dust on the violin lounging in the corner. That must have been cleaned, too.

As John sat down again, prepared to have a very long, very one-sided conversation with the skull, his phone buzzed adamantly in his pocket. It only hummed once, though, before going still again. A text, then. He couldn't imagine why anyone would be texting him so early. Only Harry texted him anymore, and that was usually after she was drunk. Chances were, she wasn't even up at this hour of the morning.

With an apologetic glance at the skull, John pulled his phone from his pocket and looked at the screen. It glowed rather harshly, proclaiming _"Messages - Received"_ with a little envelope floating beneath. Sighing, John chose to view the message.

At first, he thought someone texted him by mistake. A wrong number, simple as that. Rereading it once, twice, three times over, though, he could hear the voice of the sender quite clearly in his mind. Blunt, really rather insensitive, but familiar and really quite cherished. Before he knew what he was doing, he got to his feet, snatched his cane, and began making his way to the stairs.

Lying on the chair was his phone, the message still open, still glowing.

_"Open the door. SH"_


End file.
